


Single For Christmas? Mad At Your Dad?

by ElliottRook



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Author uses Gabriel as a punching bag, Christmas, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fist Fights, Gabriel Gets Punched, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Homophobia, Human AU, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mentions of Cancer, family gathering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28244811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElliottRook/pseuds/ElliottRook
Summary: Inspired by the classic "Alone on Thanksgiving? Mad at your dad?" Craigslist ad that went viral a few years ago. (It's a lot more lighthearted than the tags make it sound)Aziraphale's overbearing family chased off all the boyfriends he'd ever dared to bring home. When he saw an ad from a fellow offering to, essentially, ruin dinner for free food, it sounded like the perfect revenge, and maybe he could teach his family a lesson.Crowley didn't actually expect anyone to respond to the ad, much less someone as charming as Aziraphale, but he was still game to cause a scene.It didn't go quite like either of them pictured.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 179
Kudos: 500





	Single For Christmas? Mad At Your Dad?

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd and Britpicked by ineffablebadger <3
> 
> the original viral Craigslist ad can be seen here https://i.imgur.com/tmyCfFe.jpg

**_Single for Christmas? Mad at your dad?_ **

_I am a 28-year-old criminal who never finished school, and I have a dirty old van one year younger than me painted like Queen's Day at the Races. I can play any age from 20 to 30 depending on if I shave and how I do my hair. I'm a line cook and work late nights at a bar. If you'd like to have me as your strictly platonic date for Christmas dinner, but have us play at having been in a very long and/or serious relationship, to torment your family, I'm game._

_I can do any/all of the following, take your pick:  
-openly hit on any other guests at the party while you pretend to be oblivious  
-instigate contentious discussions about politics and/or religion  
-pretend to get more and more drunk as the evening goes on (I'll stay sober, but again, bar. I know how it goes)  
-start an actual fistfight with a family member. Indoors, or outdoors to show off for the neighbours, your choice  
-propose to you in front of everyone_

_I don't have any family to visit, so I don't require any pay besides the free home-cooked Christmas dinner I wouldn't get otherwise!_

Aziraphale had read the Craigslist ad over a dozen times while he ate his lunch. Agnes had sent it to him as a joke. [You ought to hire this bloke! Get your family riled up, maybe they'll stop haranguing you!] Aziraphale's family only barely tolerated his being gay, trying to ignore it. They still seemed to hope he might find a nice, quiet lady to settle down with.

Not that he minded the idea of someone nice and quiet. He wanted to settle down, wanted it more than anything in the world, but he hadn’t found anyone who wasn’t put off by his family’s antics. Aziraphale had turned out to be exactly the well-mannered librarian type they’d hoped for—other than his orientation. Despite everything they'd told him, it turned out that it really wasn’t a choice, and he hadn’t the faintest interest in women.

And that was sort of fine. They didn’t care if he was attracted to men. They just didn’t want him dating one. Or kissing one. Or sleeping with one.

Aziraphale had decided that what they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them, but it was still upsetting to go to family functions and not have his dates treated like all his siblings’ and cousins’ significant others. He’d quit trying a while ago.

It rather sounded like this fellow in the ad would be braced for the sort of things his family would say, though, willing to take derision in exchange for a family dinner.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure which was sadder, that or himself, who couldn’t quite bring himself to just stop going to family dinners. So long as his love life didn’t come up, he loved them. Most of them. Most of the time. They weren’t perfect, but no family was, and he could usually cope with them.

Aziraphale’s therapist had tried to convince him that he needed to set better boundaries. He knew the therapist had been right, but never quite managed to apply the advice.

Still. The idea of showing up with some rock-and-roll hellion at his side for one family dinner had its appeal. If he did that, then maybe the next time he turned up with a boyfriend—clean-cut, bookish, in neat khakis and a recent haircut, his usual type—maybe then they’d behave, bite their tongues, knowing how much “worse” it could be.

He texted Agnes. [My dear, it IS funny, but I do rather think he intends to dine with a female companion.]

Agnes didn’t take long to reply. [He said he’d hit on any guest. I think he goes both ways, or something.]

She had a point. Aziraphale mulled it over as he tidied up his lunch dishes and puttered around, opening the shop back up.

[No harm in asking, dearie.] she added, a few minutes later.

Aziraphale stared at the text for a moment. [Well, I’ll message him. Surely someone else has already snapped him up for this.]

He didn’t reply to Agnes’s emoji-laden [Hope he’s cute!!]

* * *

Crowley had written up the ad as a lark. Madame Tracy, the surrogate mum who usually made Christmas dinner for the two of them and whatever misfit strays were in their life at the season, was going off to spend Christmas with her new husband’s family, and even though Crowley didn’t care much about the holiday, he was going to miss the chance of a big dinner, or at least leftovers from a big dinner.

Tracy had scolded him playfully when he’d first floated the idea past her, but eventually she’d gotten on board. “Maybe you’ll meet someone!” she suggested. “What if you actually hit it off with whoever answers?”

“Or maybe it’ll be their family member,” Crowley joked, scoffing at the idea.

“Well, no matter what happens, it’s bound to be memorable,” Tracy pointed out.

“Not if no one answers,” Crowley said, and that was truly what he expected, no takers at all.

He was astonished to get the email from Aziraphale.

* * *

As Aziraphale’s luck would have it, no one else had messaged Mr. Let’s-Torment-Your-Family, and he had no qualms with being approached by a man. [I’m pansexual, actually. Bit genderfluid. Mostly masculine-of-center, male enough to be a “man” for dinner anyway. Guessing your family probably isn’t so up on the lingo, if you want to do this.]

So not only was he game, and articulate, he was open-minded, and could read between the lines.

Aziraphale agreed to meet him for tea/coffee a few days before, just to gauge their comfort, and get their story straight.

* * *

Aziraphale got to the café first, and he ordered a London Fog while he waited.

The man had told him to be on the lookout for a tall redhead in all black, and when he walked into the place, Aziraphale thought that he really should’ve given much more of a description than that. He was so taken aback by how handsome the man was that he actually, literally gasped, like some fool in a romantic comedy.

He’d been expecting the greasy, lank hair of some slacker, a tattered band tee and old blue jeans, some skinny but schlubby fellow.

Instead Aziraphale was watching the tall, lithe man look around the café, admiring the long legs, the lush curls that could’ve featured in a shampoo commercial, the jaw that could’ve cut glass—and then suddenly he remembered the man was looking for _him_.

“Over here!” he called, holding up the red, leatherbound book they’d agreed would be his signal.

The redhead turned to look, slid his stylish sunglasses down, and then smiled wickedly. He waved at Aziraphale and then got into the queue to order. A few moments later he sat down across from Aziraphale with a cup of coffee, folding those long legs under the tiny table. He flexed his shoulders to take off his heavy winter coat and hang it over the back of his chair in one fluid motion.

“You—you’re the man from the ad?” Aziraphale asked, voice hushed.

The other man smiled. “Oh, don’t say it like that, sounds dirty,” he teased. “Yes. I’m the poor prodigal son with no family on Christmas. Anthony J. Crowley, at your service. Call me Crowley, everyone does.” He offered his hand to shake.

Aziraphale shook, noting mostly how cold his hand was—but then, he’d just come in from outside. “Right. Aziraphale Fell,” he said.

Crowley tilted his head. “Huh. Aziraphale,” he repeated. “I—I saw it on your email address but I didn’t realise that was _your_ name. I thought it was a book character you liked or something.”

Aziraphale smiled. “It’s a family name,” he explained. “My great-grandfather. His uncle. _His_ grandfather...we aren’t all in a direct line but I’m technically the seventh. Before the Fell clan adopted the name, it was the name of an angel.”

Crowley nodded. “So A.Z. Fell is you?”

“Yes. Aziraphale Zebediah Fell was my great-grandfather, and I’m Aziraphale Zachary Fell.” Aziraphale shrugged one shoulder. “If we’re going through with this little ruse maybe you should take notes,” he joked.

Crowley laughed softly. “Maybe,” he said. “Anyway, sorry it took me a minute to notice you. I saw your book but I thought you were the wrong guy. You told me you weren’t particularly handsome so I just skimmed right past _you_.”

Aziraphale blushed brightly. “Oh—oh, that’s very flattering—“

Crowley shrugged. “Just the truth,” he said. “Can’t imagine you have any trouble pulling. Just this pesky family getting in your way, I take it.”

Aziraphale had never tried to _pull_ , in that sense, really. It wasn’t his scene. His one time going clubbing—dragged along by Agnes—he’d been miserable. “Well. At any rate, they’re very frustrating,” he agreed. “The idea is if I show up with some troublemaker, they’ll calm down later on when I show up with a proper gentleman. Not that you’re improper, of course! Just that you’ll be playing that part for me.”

“Right,” Crowley said. “No, I understand. I just want that turkey dinner.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Settle for goose?” he offered.

Crowley tilted his head. “Huh. Never had goose. Sure, I’m game,” he said.

“Oh, it’s my grandmother’s special spice blend in the baste, it’s delectable. The whole year is just a countdown until she makes it again,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley nodded. “Sounds good. So...what exactly do you want me to do, other than show up looking like this?”

Crowley, in black jeans that had to have been painted on, and a warm-looking charcoal henley with a deep v-neck, looked appealing to Aziraphale—but Aziraphale knew his family would find him appalling.

“Well—this is a bit of a lark,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t think you should flirt with anyone else, they’re all taken and it would make you look like much more of a pervert than acceptable.”

Crowley nodded. “Duly noted.”

Aziraphale rubbed the back of his neck. “The—the fake proposal seemed like a good way to end the evening,” he said.

Crowley cracked up. “And were you thinking of saying yes or no?”

“Oh, no, of course, so none of them question why you aren’t there for New Year’s,” Aziraphale said.

“Fair,” Crowley agreed.

“I think the rest of it is on the table,” Aziraphale said. “Fake drunkenness, fighting with all of them, maybe one physical altercation.”

“Got a target in mind?” Crowley asked. “It should be a fair fight. Would I be fighting by rules or would I be allowed to go in with a broken bottle?”

Aziraphale stared at him, bug-eyed.

Crowley just grinned. “You work at a bar long enough, you end up being a bouncer whether you want to or not,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve never lost, if it makes you feel any better.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to say. “I—I think—rules. Don’t actually send anyone to hospital.”

Crowley nodded. “Right. So which relative came to mind?”

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale said, without hesitation. “My older brother. He was the one who threw the biggest stink when I came out, and he’s just...snide. Generally. And especially since knowing I’m gay, like I’m less than all the cousins who ‘can’ get married and have babies. I’m going to get married and adopt babies! Someday.”

Crowley drew in a hiss of sympathy. “Of course you are. Once I do this and set it all up for you.”

Aziraphale brightened. “Exactly!”

Crowley nodded. “Right. So. How long have we been together?” he asked.

Aziraphale blushed. “Oh, well, it would have to be a year, or Mother wouldn’t allow it. She doesn’t want anyone in the photo album who isn’t going to be there for the long haul.”

“Wow. Okay,” Crowley said. “Pick us an anniversary?”

“October twenty-fourth?” Aziraphale suggested, out of thin air.

Crowley pulled out his phone and started tapping out a note. “How many siblings have you got?”

“Two, a brother and a sister,” Aziraphale said, with a long suffering sigh.

“Wow. I don’t have any,” Crowley said. “Just cousins.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Where would we have met? Not at your work, no offense.”

Crowley laughed. “No, no, I wouldn’t think so. Your work, maybe?”

Aziraphale smiled. “I could meet _anyone_ there. I own a bookshop.”

“Oh!” Crowley smiled. “Perfect. Everyone buys a book sooner or later.”

Aziraphale preferred when they bought them elsewhere, but he didn’t say that. “Wonderful. Do you think maybe you should come see the shop?” he suggested.

“I mean, if you own it, I would have to know what it looks like,” Crowley mused.

“It’s not far, we could walk?” Aziraphale suggested.

Crowley tilted his head. “Yeah, all right.” He pulled his coat back on. “Lead the way.”

* * *

Aziraphale was thrilled that Crowley seemed properly awed by the bookshop.

“Nice place!” Crowley said, doing a spin to take it all in. “I feel like I’ve walked by, heading home from a bar...meant to come back in the daytime...but wow!”

Aziraphale smiled. “My namesake had it built in eighteen-hundred,” he said. “It’s always been owned by the family.”

Crowley nodded. “You’d have to be crazy to give it up,” he said. “‘S’beautiful.”

That was rather what Aziraphale had always thought, too.

“Is there really a big market for antique books?” Crowley asked.

“No,” Aziraphale said. “There’s a market for book restoration, though, and a few of those per year is enough to keep the lights on.”

Crowley smiled at him. “I might come back,” he warned. “Just to poke around, I can’t afford these. But I like it here.” He paused. “I mean, if it wouldn’t be weird. After we ‘break up,’” he joked, with finger quotes.

Aziraphale smiled back. “I do try to remain amiable with my exes,” he said. “Not that any of them stick around, really. Especially if they meet my family.”

Crowley shook his head. “You realise they’re actively sabotaging you, right?”

“Oh—not purposely,” Aziraphale said. “They want what’s _best for me_ ,” he added, though his tone was mocking.

“They don’t know what that is, though,” Crowley pointed out. “That’s...you know, you’re not a child.”

And didn’t Aziraphale know it.

Crowley shrugged. “But, right, that’s where I come in.” He took another look around the shop. “It isn’t you, you know,” he said.

“Pardon?” Aziraphale said.

“You. You’re a functional adult. Own a business. Smell nice. Handsome. I’m not seeing red flags here, it really must be your family running men off.” Crowley shrugged. “It’s not you.”

Aziraphale blushed. “Oh, you flatterer.”

Crowley chuckled. “Just saying. Well, I probably ought to get going. But I think we’ve got it all worked out to horrify your family.” They’d planned a lot during their walk. “Don’t forget to bring a ring that fits you, for the proposal. Be ready to cringe, I’ll do an absolutely awful speech,” he said.

Aziraphale laughed. “I’m quite excited.”

* * *

Aziraphale took a train Christmas morning, close to Crowley’s flat, and Crowley met him at the station in his van—there was certainly no mistaking it, black but with the iconic Queen album cover larger than life on both sides. There was no need for Crowley to hang out the window waving, but he did.

Aziraphale shook his head as he approached. “It’s _hideous_ ,” he said.

Crowley laughed. “It’s _Queen_ , how dare you?” he asked, as Aziraphale got into the passenger seat. He’d pulled the top half of his hair back into the man bun that made him look much younger, maybe a touch “too” young for Aziraphale.

“No wonder you walked to the café,” Aziraphale retorted, as he buckled up.

“Oh, come now, I don’t drive her often,” Crowley said. “My other car is a Bentley.”

Aziraphale smiled. “That seems much more sensible—“

“1926 Bentley,” Crowley went on. “My great-granddad bought it new.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale nodded in approval. “An heirloom! It must be beautiful. That makes much more sense to drive around than this.”

“Not really,” Crowley said. “It tears through the petrol, and the maintenance is hard. But it’s worth it, it’s a beautiful car and it always turns heads.” He grinned. “Right, so—which way?”

Aziraphale gave directions to his parents’ house, well out of London, and Crowley zoomed into the traffic. Aziraphale grasped at the door handle. “Is this safe?!”

Crowley just laughed. “I’ve never been in a wreck!”

* * *

Once Aziraphale got used to the speed, they made up even more details for their fake backstory along the way—their meet-cute, their first date, disastrous second date, their third date and first kiss.

“You’re not one of those that goes to bed on the third date?” Crowley asked, feeling like he knew the answer.

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said. “I need to be someone’s boyfriend first, and that takes—oh, a while. A month or two. And even then…”

Crowley shrugged. “But we’ve…?”

Aziraphale blushed. “Well, yes, we’ve been serious for a while. So of course.”

Crowley gave him a smile. “Nothing wrong with needing to be comfortable,” he said. “It’s good, you know, to trust your partner and all.”

“Oh—oh, yes. Exactly,” Aziraphale agreed. “It takes me a bit longer to—to let my guard down, to actually commit. I guess I’m a bit choosy.”

“Had your heart broken,” Crowley guessed.

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes.” He didn’t offer any further explanation.

“That’s not the weirdest thing,” Crowley said. “Even if you slept around when you were younger. By now you should have a better idea of what you want and if you’re looking to settle down, you definitely can’t settle for less."

Aziraphale brightened a little. “Oh, that makes it sound much nicer,” he said. “I do know what I want.” He smiled dreamily. He wanted a professor type, he thought, someone buttoned-up and smart—though it had started to change the last few days, he’d had odd thoughts of long red hair, of rock-and-rollers, of leather jackets, but surely that was just a passing fancy. Besides, no chance someone like that—like Crowley—would take an interest in him.

Crowley chuckled. “Yeah, me too,” he agreed. “Haven’t had any luck finding it recently, so...you know. Single on Christmas. I’m glad to have somewhere to go, really, you’re doing me more of a favor than you realise. Beats being home alone and depressed.”

“Even if they’re awful to you?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shrugged. “I know not to take it personally.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Well, I suppose so, just...they might be _quite_ awful, so please...just be prepared, I suppose.”

“Really, don’t worry about me, Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “I understand. I didn’t sign up to make someone’s family _happy_.”

* * *

Crowley was as impressed by the Fell family home as he had been by the bookshop. He let out a low whistle. “This—wow. This is nice,” he said.

“My grandfather on my mum’s side had it built,” Aziraphale said. “Lots of rooms for lots of grandchildren, he hoped, and it came true.”

Crowley smiled. “That’s sweet.” He parked, as directed, on the lawn, just off the driveway. “Well, here goes.”

There were already faces gawping from the windows just at the sight of the van. Aziraphale could practically hear the murmuring as they got out of it and—by previous agreement—Crowley took his hand on the way to the door.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice how quickly Crowley got cold in the open air, almost like he’d never fully warmed up in the van, even though Aziraphale had felt perfectly toasty. He squeezed gently, trying to help warm him up.

Crowley was used to being cold. He’d blown it off for most of his life as an ambiguous circulation thing that he’d never bothered to have checked out, but he liked the feel of Aziraphale’s hand.

He nearly didn’t want to let go as they got inside, but he did, and they stamped the snow off their boots.

Crowley was not braced for the rush of screaming children.

“Uncle Zira!”

“Unka Ziiii!”

“Uncle Aziraphale!”

The two men were accosted by five small blonde children, including a toddler who said nothing at all but ran right up and latched onto Aziraphale’s leg. The blond lit up at all the affection, patting the child’s hair. “Yes, yes, hello everyone!” Aziraphale greeted.

The oldest—or at least tallest—of the children, a girl about eight or nine, openly stared at Crowley. “Who are you?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Now, Cecilia, use your manners,” he chided, gently.

Cecilia, eyes never wavering from the mysterious stranger, sighed dramatically. “Uncle Aziraphale, _please_ introduce me to your...friend.”

Aziraphale smiled. “That’s better. Children, this is Anthony Crowley. He’s my boyfriend. You can all call him Mr. Crowley. Crowley, dear, these are all my nieces and nephews. Cecilia, Walter, Lily, Portia, and this little fellow—“ He bent to lift the baby into his arms— “Is Fletcher!”

Crowley shed his coat, hung it up, then leaned closer and smiled at the baby. “Hi.”

Fletcher studied him for a second, then decided he liked him and giggled. Crowley laughed and started pulling faces to keep it going.

“What about us adults?” a booming voice asked from the archway that led to the living room.

Crowley looked up at the tall man that came in. Dark hair, corporate vibe, obviously a complete arsehole. The arse-iness just filled the room as soon as he walked in; Crowley could practically smell it.

“Hello, Gabriel,” Aziraphale said.

Ah, the one Crowley was going to get to fight. He was tall, but Crowley wasn’t scared of him. This guy liked order. He was sure to have never fought in his life.

Gabriel gave Aziraphale a stiff, patronizing smile.

“This is my boyfriend, Anthony Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley, dear, this is _Gabriel_. I’ve told you about him.”

“You call him by his last name?” Gabriel asked, eyebrow raised, as he cautiously approached and offered a hand to shake.

Crowley shook. “Yeah. _Nobody_ calls me Anthony.” Just as he suspected, Gabriel gave him a look that seemed to say he was taking it as a challenge.

Gabriel cleared his throat as he pulled his hand back. “Right, well—come along, meet everyone else,” he said, stiffly. He led them to the kitchen. “Honey, Aziraphale brought a date,” he said, with a very fake smile.

There were three women in the kitchen, actually, and Crowley tried to smile, too.

“Yes, I did!” Aziraphale said, trying to sound cheerful. “Everyone, this is Crowley. Anthony Crowley, please call him Crowley. Crowley, love, this is my sister, Michael, this is Gabriel’s wife, Martha, and my mother, Beatrice.”

Martha gave the pair a look that seemed to indicate they smelled bad. “How...interesting,” she said, and offered Crowley a hand to shake. Crowley felt like he was turning a hand crank, she was so stiff. He thought of one of those dolls that had a string inside holding it tight, until you pressed a button that gave it some slack, and it tumbled over.

Michael gave him an apologetic smile. “And we heard you meeting the children.”

Crowley smiled genuinely. “That’s all right,” he said. “I think they saw the van coming.”

Gabriel and Martha exchanged a worried look.

“Where’s Dad?” Aziraphale asked his mother. “And William?”

“Garage,” she said. “Don’t run off just yet. Let me get a look at your young man, it’s been so long since you’ve had one!”

Not that long, but long enough since Aziraphale had brought one home for the family to meet. Crowley obligingly did a little spin. “Not that much to look at,” he said.

“Nonsense! This one’s handsome, dove,” Beatrice said. “Nice and trim, hmm?”

Crowley saw it for the dig against Aziraphale that it was. “Oh, none of that,” he snapped. “Especially on the holidays, it’s time to indulge, innit?”

Aziraphale gave him a grateful smile. “Exactly, no sense in tightening belts today! Grandmother’s bird is in the oven and you know you don’t want to deal with heaps of leftovers.”

Beatrice gave a hum of vague disapproval, but said nothing.

Crowley decided then and there that no matter how much chaos he caused at this family dinner, he was defending Aziraphale. Aziraphale needed someone in his corner, clearly.

Aziraphale passed Fletcher to Michael. “Here, dear, it’ll be too cold for him in the garage. Crowley, come along, I’d like you to meet my dad, too.”

Crowley nodded. “Uh, right, yeah,” he agreed, trying to sound a bit more nervous than he felt. It was all fake, no need to be nervous. “Can I get a drink, maybe?”

“Oh, there’s mulled cider in the slow cooker!” Beatrice said. “Help yourself, just don’t leave the cup in the garage.”

In the corner of the kitchen there was a slow cooker on low, and when Crowley took the lid off, the entire kitchen suddenly smelled of sweet apples with a cinnamon kick. “Oooh—” He quickly ladled out a cupful into one of the fine teacups that had been set out beside it, and closed his eyes to sip at it. “Oh, that—that is artfully done,” he said.

“My recipe!” Michael chirped. “You can barely taste the bourbon, right?”

Crowley nodded. He hadn’t tasted it at all, and decided to sip slowly. “Yeah, it’s good,” he agreed. It was the perfect start for his drunken performance later.

Aziraphale took his hand. “Come on, garage is this way,” he said, and led Crowley down a hall and through a door.

In the garage there were two sensible saloons, and one of them had the bonnet popped up. Two men were looking over the engine, tinkering, apparently. “Hi, Dad,” Aziraphale said, and both of them looked up.

The older man smiled and grabbed a rag to wipe grease off his hands. “Heya, son.” He looked curiously at Crowley. “And this is...?”

Aziraphale smiled. “My date, Dad. Crowley. My boyfriend,” he said. Crowley didn’t miss the nervous tone in his voice. “Crowley, dear, this is my father, Basil Fell.”

Crowley offered his hand to shake again. “Anthony Crowley, but yes, please, call me Crowley.”

“Crowley,” the younger man said, coming to join them.

“This is Michael’s husband, William,” Aziraphale told Crowley. “And that’s everyone here but Grandmother, until the cousins arrive later.”

Crowley shook his hand, too. “Right. Hi,” he said. “Car trouble?” he asked, nodding towards the vehicle.

“Just tuning it up,” William said.

“Something’s misfiring,” Basil said. “We were trying to figure out what.”

Crowley nodded. “Could take a look,” he offered.

Basil looked at Aziraphale. “So you found one that knows more about cars than you?” he asked, surprised.

Aziraphale’s mouth set in a firm line. “Well, Dad, they all have,” he said. “It’s not difficult, given that I’ve never owned one.”

Crowley tried not to look surprised. Of course he hadn’t, Aziraphale had mentioned being very familiar with public transport, sticking closer to home, usually riding to Christmas dinner with a cousin or something. That explained it.

“It’s all right,” Crowley said, cheerfully. “I know enough for both of us. Start the car for me?” he asked.

William frowned a little, but he got into the driver’s seat and turned the key. Crowley leaned over the engine, listening for a moment. Sure enough, the motor sputtered a bit, shaking the car.

“That,” Basil said. “Very disruptive.”

Crowley nodded. “Kill the engine,” he said, and once it was off he leaned in, and tugged out a spark plug. He wiped it clean on the grease rag. “Yeah, there’s your trouble,” he said. “These need a clean. I can do it, half a jiffy.”

“...I could’ve figured that out,” William muttered.

Basil smiled at him. “Would you?” he asked Crowley, and Crowley was already doing it before the words were out.

Aziraphale watched curiously, and soon enough Crowley was motioning for William to start the engine again. It roared to life, and this time it ran steadily with no problems. Crowley grinned. “Yeah, misfiring,” he said. “Should be fine now.”

Basil seemed impressed. “Would you look at that?” He nodded at Aziraphale. “At least this one’s handy.”

Crowley felt the sting almost as much as Aziraphale clearly did, by the wounded look on his face. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, the van’s finicky. Breaks down a lot.”

“Van?” William asked.

Crowley grinned. “Open up the door, take a look if you like.”

Basil walked over and pressed the button for the garage door, and it clattered as it retracted upwards, and he and William gawped widely at the van in the yard. “That—”

“Is a classic!” Crowley said. “Day at the Races!”

William shook his head in disbelief. “You—do you _live_ in that?” he asked.

Crowley snorted. “No. No, I have a flat. But I have camped out in it. Road trips and such. Cheaper than a hotel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide, but he said nothing. He was probably supposed to know that.

“You went with him?” Basil asked, turning back to look at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale flushed scarlet. “No. No, Dad. I—I haven’t.”

“We’ll find a concert you want to see sooner or later,” Crowley said, cheerfully. “We’ll try it sometime. Better in the springtime, of course, when you can just leave the windows open.”

Basil could only nod, baffled, and he closed the garage door. “We—we best get inside,” he said. “See if the women need any help.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Right, right, and I do want Crowley to meet Grandmother.” They all herded inside, and Crowley discreetly poured out the rest of his cider down the utility sink as they went by, then dutifully brought his cup inside—though he left it on a credenza that was right by the door where they came in, to be found later.

Aziraphale led Crowley to the front parlour, where an old woman was sitting by the fireplace, a half-knitted afghan over her lap as she worked on the other half. “I saw you pull up,” she said, as Aziraphale took a seat on the sofa, diagonally from her. “Hideous van, what are you thinking?”

“It isn’t mine,” Aziraphale said. “It belongs to my boyfriend, here.” He patted the seat next to him and Crowley sat close. “This is Crowley. Crowley, this is my grandmother, Hepzibah Fell.”

“You’re still on about all that?” she asked him. “Boyfriends?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes, Grandmother,” he said. “I’ll always be on about that.”

“I just don’t understand why you can’t find a sweet little wife like Martha,” Hepzibah said. “Someone to keep house for you.”

Crowley cleared his throat. “I mean, I can cook,” he said. “It’s my job after all.”

Hepzibah looked up from her knitting for the first time. “Oh? So you’re the girl here?” She seemed surprised, and Crowley grated against the stereotype.

“No,” he said. “All man, here.” That wasn’t exactly true, but that was a lot closer to the truth, most days.

“I just wanted you to meet him, Grandmother, no need to give him the third degree.” Aziraphale gave Crowley an apologetic smile. “He came all the way out here to meet everyone. We’ve been together over a year now.”

Hepzibah raised an eyebrow. “A new record for you, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale blushed. She wasn’t even wrong. “Yes, well...Crowley’s quite special.”

Crowley bristled a little at that—-he _wasn’t_ special, that was sort of the point—but he kept quiet.

Hepzibah set her knitting aside. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” she said, getting up. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to baste the bird.”

Aziraphale was quiet until she was gone. “Sorry,” he said.

Crowley snorted. “It hasn’t been so bad,” he said. “You realise I’ve had people physically accost me and call me slurs, right? They can say I’m a little feminine. Hell, I _am_ a little feminine. Sometimes I’m a _lot_ feminine. S’not a bad thing to be.”

Aziraphale smiled softly. “Right. No. It isn’t.”

Crowley nodded. “I’m fine. Shall I go start an argument?” he suggested, grinning.

“Right, should be the perfect time to bring up trans rights or something,” Aziraphale said.

“We’re for, and they’re against, I take it?” Crowley asked, as he stood and offered Aziraphale a hand.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said.

“Good! Nothing to fake, then,” Crowley said, and followed Aziraphale back to where the people were.

* * *

By the time the other cousins started to show up and the house was getting crowded, Crowley had almost everyone hating him, and he was more and more cheerful about it as the time went on. He didn’t really care if they all thought he was some kind of lunatic for thinking governments ought to _help_ the people they served, or thinking women should control their own lives, or thinking all wars were morally wrong. He never cared if anyone got mad at him for that, that was other people’s problem, not his.

He mixed himself a few drinks from the well-stocked bar, though not one of them had a drop of alcohol—just a few ingredients to look fancy, taste fruity, and indicate foolishness. It seemed to work, the family gave him fresh dirty looks every time he poured himself another. Maybe it was because even with his fake spaciness, he was making a more articulate case for his beliefs than they could. He wasn’t sure what they were being so high-and-mighty about, the cider was being ladled generously and Gabriel seemed to keep leaving the gathering to take phone calls, which seemed very weird on Christmas, to Crowley’s way of thinking.

The children all loved him, though. Whenever another cousin turned up, they dragged the cousin’s kids over to meet the mysterious redhead, and Crowley was more than willing to talk to them and make faces and play. They weren’t part of Aziraphale’s game, no need to traumatise them. During the last hour before dinner was to be served, they dragged him to sit at the children’s table with them, as Beatrice got out two bowls of crayons and passed a few sheets of paper out to everyone.

“Crowley, dear, you don’t _have_ to colour with them,” Aziraphale said, though he was smiling fondly.

Crowley waved a crayon in the air. “But it’s fun!” He gave a ‘drunken’ grin, and the adults let him be, since the kids were being quiet. He ended up sloppily drawing the van, and letting the kids help him colour it all in.

Lily asked him, through lisping, missing front teeth, “Are you gonna marry Unka Zira?”

Crowley laughed softly. “Well, maybe someday,” he said. “He hasn’t asked me, though. So we’re not planning it yet.”

“You should,” she informed him. “He was sad.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, and leaned in a little closer. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Do you know why?”

She sighed forlornly in the way that only a four-year-old could. “His boyfriends keep breakin’ up with him. He was gonna marry them.”

Crowley bit down a smile, certain that Aziraphale had never intended to marry _every_ one of them, and he was sure she was getting this secondhand from her older sister, maybe even the adults, because Aziraphale had to have been on the dating scene longer than she’d been alive. “But you think he’s not sad now?” he asked.

“Not today,” she told him.

Well, at least they were fooling the little ones. Aziraphale had been all smiles, other than when he’d had to play into holding Crowley back during the arguments he’d started, and even then Crowley had seen him holding the smile back, knowing he agreed with him.

Aziraphale came to the table from the kitchen. “Crowley, dear, dinner’s about to be served, can you wrap this up?” he asked. “We’re bringing everything to the table.”

Crowley nodded. “Yeah, kids—let’s put the colours up, yeah?” he said, and started scooping up crayons that weren’t being used. “We can maybe do more after dinner, but it’s dinnertime!”

Aziraphale smiled warmly, watching them until his mother called for him to come back to the kitchen, and he startled, and rushed to comply.

Crowley stacked everyone’s pictures neatly and put them out of the way of spills as Michael came to check on the children. “Got it under control,” he said, but he slurred just enough to make it seem like he’d been after the grown-up juice.

She frowned at him. “Do you mind, in front of the kids?”

“Not at all, we’ve been having a grand time!” he said, and he smiled a bit too long as he slithered past her, heading to the adult table to take a seat with everyone else. Aziraphale’s family was all settling around, too, the couples seated together—and it was then that Crowley realised that they were _all_ couples. Aziraphale was the only one unmarried. Most of them had children, too, and Aziraphale wanted that too, but had had the rest of them ganging up against him.

Crowley gave Aziraphale a sympathetic look as he took his seat, and Aziraphale looked back at him curiously.

Gabriel glared daggers at them from directly across the table. Perfect, Crowley wanted an audience for what came next—but even he wasn’t prepared for what it actually was.

Basil, at the head of the table, stood and raised his water glass. “I’m sure we’re all happy to be here,” he said. “Another year of blessings behind us, and a year where we have an even number at the table.” He looked meaningfully at Aziraphale. “I’m sure we—we’re all glad Aziraphale’s found someone to get close to this year, and—well, I thought it might be nice if Crowley here said grace for our bountiful table.”

Crowley couldn’t help but gape at him for a moment. “Oh, I—I don’t think that’s a good idea—”

“Don’t be shy,” Martha said, perfectly painted lips turning almost to a snarl. “We’re family here.”

Crowley felt himself coming back to reality. “It isn’t that,” he said. “Just—well, the simple truth is, I’m not a believer. But you go ahead, I’ll be quiet,” he assured them.

Nobody replied. The table was dead silent.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Did I not mention that?” he asked, trying to play it cool.

Nobody seemed to know what to say to that, either—except Gabriel, who didn’t ‘say’ so much as ‘bellow.’ “Is it not bad enough to be a dirty queer, Aziraphale? You had to bring a—a—an _atheist_?” The bluster petered out a bit at the end, where he realised he had to whisper to keep from calling the attention of the children, who were of course too young and innocent for such a concept.

Crowley rolled his head to the side. “Didn’t say that. Probably something up there smarter than you—I mean, than humans,” he said. “But seeing as how whatever it is hasn’t made itself known in...well, a damn long time, no matter how you want to figure it, I don’t see much point in wasting time at church going through silly rituals that don’t change anything. A lot more good to be accomplished through...I dunno, charity work, protests, changing laws.” He shrugged. “You’ve already heard me say a lot about that today, I guess.”

Martha put a hand on Gabriel’s sleeve. “He said he’d be quiet,” she hissed. “Let him be quiet.” She looked around the table, eyes frantically darting among familiar faces. “Can someone else please say grace?”

Beatrice finally stood up. “It’s all right, I will.”

Crowley put his head down and closed his eyes, copying everyone else, while Beatrice said a very lovely blessing over the food. Once she was done, of course, the table became a cacophony, dishes being passed around, parents making plates to take to their kids, and it was a relief.

Crowley nudged Aziraphale to get his attention and mouthed “I’m sorry?”

Aziraphale gave a slight shake of his head. “It’s—what I expected,” he said, quietly. “Sorry.”

Crowley nodded. “It’s fine.” Causing a bit of embarrassment and chaos was what he’d signed up for, after all, and now he was getting the payment he’d been after.

The dinner, he decided, was worth every bit of it; the bickering, the awkwardness, the coming fight with Gabriel. Grandma Hepzibah’s goose was mouth-wateringly moist and perfect, the ideal taste for Crowley’s first time eating it. The rest of the family’s cooking was nothing to sneeze at, either, and Crowley enjoyed every bite—and glared at anyone who seemed to be judging Aziraphale for doing the same. He did actually drink a glass of wine with dinner to steel himself and add to the fake drunkenness.

“Is everyone ready for dessert?” Beatrice asked, as forks started to be left on plates when people finished.

“Dessert!” one of the kids cheered, from their table, and the noise level from the next room raised considerably.

Crowley cleared his throat. “Well—before we do that, I _would_ like to say something.”

Aziraphale instantly blushed, and stared up at Crowley as Crowley rose to his feet. Crowley lifted his glass. He had to start talking before anyone stopped him. “So—it’s been a great year, Aziraphale, we’ve had some really good times, haven’t we?”

Aziraphale chuckled nervously, though he knew what was happening. “Of course, dear...”

Crowley grinned. “Yeah, well, been thinking about it, and, uh—” He paused and put his glass down, to fish in his jeans pocket and pull out the ring Aziraphale had given him earlier. “Been thinking. We ought to just...keep the good times going. Aziraphale, would you marry me?” He offered up the ring, flat on his palm.

Aziraphale hesitated—paused for effect—and that was a mistake.

“ _What_?” Gabriel cut in. “You— _what_?”

Michael frowned at him. “Hush, Gabriel, it’s romantic!” she said.

“But then—this hellion would be in the family, and—and—”

“Is it even legal?” Basil wondered aloud.

“ _Yes_ , Dad,” Aziraphale hissed.

“That doesn’t make it right!” Gabriel said. “We can’t—this would reflect on the entire family, Aziraphale. I can’t—we can’t—you shouldn’t even be dating him, it’s—is a blot on our name.” He crossed his arms, shaking his head.

“Well, he is,” Crowley said. “Not really your business if we make each other happy. Gay’s not contagious, you know.”

“But the children,” Martha cut in. “You’ve confused them enough, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale gaped at her. She’d always been more quiet about his “preferences,” though she’d always said the word italicised, after a dramatic pause, when her “concerns” did come up—usually thanks to Gabriel, he realised. Maybe she just hadn’t wanted to rock the boat with her husband’s family.

Crowley just grinned. “They didn’t seem so confused when I was colouring with them,” he said. “And you didn’t seem to hate me so much when I was keeping them quiet and out of your hair. Lily, she’s one of yours, right?” he asked Michael, who nodded in affirmation. “Yeah, I was thinking maybe I wasn’t going to do this today, but _she_ told me to. She said Uncle Zira has been sad and lonely and wanted to be married.” He turned back to Aziraphale. “So, what about it?”

“It’s not just the—the— _gay thing_ ,” Gabriel sputtered. “He’s not religious, and—and—”

“And _what_ , Gabriel?” Aziraphale asked, voice strained.

Gabriel grinned, teeth flashing like a switchblade. “I called up a source with the police,” Gabriel said. “Crowley’s a _criminal_.” Crowley hadn’t thought it would come up, not with proof, anyway, but suddenly the memory tickled the back of his brain—Aziraphale had said Gabriel was a barrister, _of course_ he’d be able to look that sort of thing up, even during Christmas dinner. “A thief. You ought to count the silver before he goes, Mum.”

Aziraphale leaned in across the table. “Gabriel. _I know_ ,” he said, and Crowley couldn’t help the surge of relief that flooded him. At least Aziraphale was going to take his side on this.

Gabriel’s mouth dropped open. “You know?”

“We let all the kids play with him!” one of the cousins said, suddenly horrified.

“Oh, blast you all!” Aziraphale said. “It was _years_ ago, it wasn’t—he didn’t _murder_ anyone, it wasn’t—”

“I _did_ steal,” Crowley said, and the table went silent again, this time wanting to hear the dirt. “I was really young and I was working as a driver for a banker. He was never into cars, which I don’t get, and he’d work while I drove, you know…” He waved a hand. “Anyway, I had a friend, she was older, and looked after me a bit once my parents kicked me out. She was running two businesses from home, but she got ill. Ovarian cancer, had to have a hysterectomy. And while she was recovering and having the follow-up chemotherapy, she—she couldn’t well keep up with both businesses, you know, she was sickly and barely had enough energy for _one_ after her treatments.”

One of the cousins nodded sympathetically, and her husband patted her arm. Crowley knew that look, they’d been through it.

Crowley sighed. “And she got behind on the mortgage, you know, she had to eat, had to build her strength back up, all on half the income she was used to. She got better, but when she opened the second business back up, all her regulars had moved on, she pretty much had to start that over from scratch. By the time she finally admitted to me that she needed money to keep from losing her house, it had racked up to—I don’t remember, exactly. Over two thousand pounds.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “My boss had a petty cash account and he’d give me the card to run errands for him sometimes. So I took it out. Two thousand and five hundred pounds to catch her up and help. I intended to pay it back over time, just deposit it as I could afford it, I assumed he’d never notice, but of course there was a fantastically well-timed audit not too long later, and I got caught, long before I could pay much of it back in.”

“Oh!” Beatrice shook her head. “Of all the luck!”

“Mum!” Gabriel chastised. Beatrice gave him a look and he went quiet, with a pout.

Crowley nodded. “So—they confronted me, and I told him I’d planned to pay it back, even offered for him to take it out of my wages over a year or so, so he’d be guaranteed to get it all back, but he swore I needed to be taught a lesson. Long story short, I went to jail for a year.” He shook his head. “I know it was illegal, but damn anyone at this table who tries to tell me it was _wrong_.” He slammed a fist on the tabletop and glared around at all the other guests. “And for the record, even after that, Madame Tracy and I scraped together what we could and we _still_ paid it back, even though we didn’t have to.”

Aziraphale was teary by the time Crowley finished the story, and he reached over and put a hand on Crowley’s arm. He looked across at Gabriel. “Crowley served his time, there’s nothing for you to punish, you can take your self-righteousness and shove—”

“Fletcher!” Michael cut in, as William lifted the baby from the floor. Crowley took his seat, blushing scarlet.

“Zert!” Fletcher said, grinning.

Michael nodded. “Yes, yes, it is time for good little boys to have dessert,” she said. “Mum will get it for you in just a minute...if we’re done here...?”

Aziraphale turned to Crowley. “Right...perhaps we should go discuss this in private?” he suggested, and he got up and offered Crowley a hand.

Crowley nodded and took it, and Aziraphale led him away, deeper into the house, upstairs.

“I’d nearly forgotten your ad said you were a criminal,” Aziraphale said, quietly, as he let them into one of the bedrooms.

Crowley huffed out a small laugh. “Well, obviously, the truth isn’t nearly as badass as it sounds when you first throw that fact out,” he said. He closed the door behind them and took a look around the room. It was clearly decorated for a younger person, though there was a big double bed—one of the “rooms for grandkids” Aziraphale had mentioned, he figured. “Was that enough of a scene? Terrible enough proposal?” he asked.

Aziraphale blushed softly. “It wasn’t so bad. I’ve heard of worse. And at least it wasn’t one of those big flashy mobs...did Lily really tell you that?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, laughing. “Proves that the homophobia is taught, not genetic.”

Aziraphale was standing in front of a framed photo sitting on top of the dresser, and Crowley came close to take a curious look, too—it was the Fell family, from before Aziraphale’s siblings were married, probably, since neither of the spouses were in the picture. Certainly from before there were nieces and nephews. Aziraphale turned to look up at Crowley. “This was my room, when I lived here,” he said.

Crowley glanced around. “Explains the tartan,” he teased. The curtains and the bedspread were made from the same criss-cross print, in a muted blue and mint green, and it was easy to picture a younger Aziraphale in the room, doing homework, curling into the corner armchair with cocoa and a book.

Aziraphale laughed. “Yeah, I suppose…” He bit his lip. “I really hope it hasn’t been horrible for you,” he said. “I know you said you were after the dinner, and the goose _was_ really good, but—I—I feel just awful about the way they’ve behaved. I’m sorry.”

Crowley shook his head. “I didn’t expect Gabriel to be quite so much of a douche as to phone in a favour _on Christmas_ like that, but...really, I’ve had worse. And I’ve been pushing their buttons. Kinda glad, actually, when I clock Gabriel later it’ll actually be personal. But it’s not like I keep it a secret. The jail time, and all.”

“Was that the real story?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, nodding. “That’s really what happened. You can go ask your brother if you want to look at my record, I guess.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No. I believe you. And...and I think you’re right. About it being illegal but not wrong.”

Crowley finally turned to look at him, eyes bright, lower lip actually trembling. “You realise Madame Tracy’s second ‘business’ is sex work, right?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “I doubt anyone else down there picked up on that, but I _do_ live in Soho, dear. I understand.”

“And you don’t think it makes me bad—”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Nor her.”

“Oh…” Crowley smiled, and then he slipped his hands up to stroke Aziraphale’s cheeks with his thumbs, long fingers wrapping around his neck, as he bent just a little and kissed him.

It was a gamble, but Aziraphale grabbed at Crowley’s hips and pulled him flush against his body. He leaned back, Crowley moved with him, and they crashed back against the dresser, nearly knocking the photo off. Hearts were pounding, minds racing—

“Thought you said strictly platonic?” Aziraphale pulled back to ask.

“Bugger that,” Crowley murmured.

“I come with them,” Azirpahale reminded him.

“And I’ve already handled their worst,” Crowley pointed out.

Aziraphale didn’t have a retort, so he just grabbed the back of Crowley’s neck and pulled him down to kiss him again.

It was delicious, and Crowley was half wondering if they should move to the bed, when the door opened and a tiny voice began to squeal. Aziraphale broke the kiss, but kept Crowley pressed close. “Oh! Lily!”

The little girl looked up at them with stars in her eyes. “You were _kissin’_!” she squeaked, and started jumping up and down. “Are you gonna marry him, Unka Zira?”

Aziraphale gently nudged Crowley away. “I—er—we’ve decided to think it over for a little longer,” he told her.

She pouted up at him. “But he’s so handsome!”

Crowley chuckled. “It’s a little more complicated than that,” he told her. “But we’ll think about it,” he said. “I’m not breaking up with him.”

Lily gasped, and grinned at him. “Okay!” She zipped away back towards the dinner table, and dessert.

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley. “For real?” he asked, breathlessly.

Crowley hooked his finger under Aziraphale’s bow tie, pulled him closer, and kissed him again, a bit softer. “For real,” he said. “I’ll take you out on a proper date next time, all right? Can’t say I’m going to get along with all of them. I’m not going to hide anything to make them happy or tamp myself down or anything. You come with them, but I come as myself. But we should probably get back to the dinner table now, yeah?”

Aziraphale blushed softly. “Oh...right,” he murmured. They still had to deal with his family, just a little longer.

Crowley grabbed his hand and led the way back downstairs. They came back to the table just in time for Beatrice to put down two slices of Christmas pudding at their places.

Lily, thankfully, was blabbing the news rather loudly to her mother. “...but Mister Crowley’s not breakin’ up with him, Mum, they’re just not gonna get married _right now_! They’re gonna be boyfriends and they’ll get married later.”

Aziraphale chuckled and shrugged at his sister, who was trying, and failing, to shush her daughter.

“Is that true?” Gabriel asked, accusatorially.

Aziraphale lifted his chin. “Yes, actually,” he said. “Your meddling isn’t going to make me any less gay, and I’d like to just enjoy Christmas pudding with my boyfriend. You don’t have to like it, but you can be quiet about it.”

“That’s true,” Beatrice said. “Just like when Aziraphale decided to run the bookshop, and take painting classes, and learned the piano instead of taking up a sport. Now he can play for us while we sing carols after dinner. What are you going to do, perform rugby all alone while we watch?” she snapped.

“Are you really taking a criminal’s side over—”

Basil pointed a finger at Gabriel. “At least he could fix the car!” he said, and Crowley grinned, pleased to be appreciated. “I thought I taught you better than to hold someone’s past up to them once they’d made amends.”

Gabriel sputtered, and finally got up from the table and left the room, leaving his pudding untouched. Martha chased after him. Aziraphale got up, reached across the table, and scooted Gabriel’s pudding onto his own plate. Crowley just grinned at him.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Did anyone else care to comment on my life choices, or my boyfriend, or anything else?”

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” one of the cousins’ wives cut in. “He’s gay, it’s not like you can just change that. And if you want him to settle down and get married, you’re going to have to accept that it’s going to be with a boyfriend.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Thank you, Uriel,” he said. “That’s exactly it. There’s never going to be a wife, and I’m sure I’d make a woman quite miserable if I lied to myself enough to try marrying one. And I don’t _think_ you want me to be alone forever…?”

Beatrice shook her head. “Of course not, dear, it’s just—”

“We’ll get used to it,” Basil said, flatly, getting everyone’s attention.

“We will not!” Hepzibah scolded, and everyone swiveled to look at her. “It’s still unnatural, and sinful, and—”

“And he’s still family,” Basil said. “Everyone at this table has some dirty laundry, or something they don’t agree with the family on, but we’ve muddled through this far. Maybe we ought to cut Aziraphale some slack. I don’t want to be the one making my son miserable.”

Crowley felt like he shouldn’t be there for the discussion, maybe, but only because he hadn’t actually put in the time with Aziraphale that they’d said he had. The argument was sort of his fault—or to his credit, depending on how you looked at it. Certainly not how he’d seen it going.

Gabriel came back into the room. “I can take you home, Gran,” he offered. He’d heard enough, and saw the sour look still on her face.  
  
Hepzibah got up from the table. “Yes. Please.”

Gabriel nodded. “Martha, get the kids.”

“We haven’t even done any caroling!” Beatrice said. “Do you really—”

“Let them go,” Basil said. “They can come back when they’re ready to play nice.”

Aziraphale wiped at his eyes, but resolutely refused to let Gabriel see him cry. Once he and Martha, Cecilia, Walter, and Hepzibah were gone, he took his hanky out to dab a little more thoroughly. “Thanks, Dad.”

Beatrice sighed heavily. “I do wish it didn’t have to be like this,” she said.

“So does Aziraphale,” Crowley said, flatly. “He didn’t _want_ anyone to be mad for bringing home someone he cares about to meet all the other people he cares about.”

Beatrice had the decency to look down and blush. “I suppose that...that makes sense.”

Aziraphale reached across the table and put his hand over hers. “It’s true, Mum. And—and I appreciate you seeing that, finally.” He smiled softly at her.

Beatrice smiled back. “Oh—I—yes, dear. Of course.” She sighed softly. “I do want you to be happy.”

“Even if that’s with Crowley?” Aziraphale pressed.

She tipped her head. “Well, I did tell you he was handsome, didn’t I?”

Aziraphale grinned. “He certainly is.”

Crowley laughed. “Oh, hush. Eat your pudding.”

There was a blast of cold air as the door opened again, though, and Gabriel stepped back inside. “They’re all packed up,” he said. “Last chance before we leave.”

“Last chance for _what_?” Crowley snapped. “For everyone to kowtow to your pompous arse?”

A few of the cousins gasped. “I don’t like your attitude,” Gabriel said.

Crowley stood up, and stretched to his full height—inch for inch the same as Gabriel’s. “Look, I don’t know what attitude you think _I_ have, but everyone here has agreed you’re a _bully_ ,” he said. “So you can go. It’s fine.”

“They’re my family, they can’t possibly be choosing you!” Gabriel said in a childish whine. He couldn’t believe how badly he’d lost control of the situation—of the family.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Gabriel, if you want to be treated like family, you need to _act_ like family. And you haven’t, not to me at least, for a long time.” It had been since he’d come out, to be precise, but Aziraphale didn’t see much point in pressing it.

“At least I’m not a fucking f—”

Before the slur could get all the way out Crowley was on him. He’d leapt around the table and took the first swing, landing squarely on Gabriel’s jaw. Gabriel cried out as much from surprise as pain. Crowley jumped back, fists up to guard himself.

“You—fucking—”

“Gabriel! Language!” Michael said. “Some example you’re setting for the children!”

Gabriel was fuming, and he took a swing that Crowley easily leaned back and dodged. “Wanna take it outside?” Crowley asked. “I’m not _scared_ of you, lawyer boy, I’ve been to prison.”

Gabriel sputtered at him. “I—I— _fine_!” he agreed, and stomped towards the door. Crowley followed, not bothering with his coat. Aziraphale hopped up, too—he wasn’t worried, he knew Crowley would win, but he wanted to _watch_.

Aziraphale barely noticed which cousins decided to follow. All his attention was on Crowley as he and Gabriel circled each other. Gabriel seemed too scared to throw a punch, where Crowley jabbed towards him every few seconds and pulled his punches. It was nowhere near a fair fight, Crowley had all the experience. “C’mon, lawyer boy, didn’t you learn anything playing lacrosse? What’d they teach you in prep school?”

Gabriel finally tried to punch, but it only grazed Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley got in close, and punched Gabriel squarely in the gut. Gabriel went down _hard_ , clutching his stomach, knees curling to his chest. He couldn’t even catch his breath to form insults, stuck gasping in pain.

Crowley stood over him with crossed arms. “Now listen...if you can play nice, I can, too, but if you _ever_ hurt Aziraphale’s feelings again, there’s more where that came from. Do I make myself clear?”

Gabriel nodded, wheezing, as Martha ran over from the car. Crowley saluted her, and then turned on his heel to saunter back towards the house.

“My hero,” Aziraphale said, quietly, as Crowley made it back to the porch, and he stood on tiptoe to kiss Crowley’s cheek.

Inside, scores all settled, the family sat down to dessert, finally. Aziraphale ate both pieces of pudding without even a fleeting thought of guilt.

After dessert, the family moved to the parlour to sing carols together. Crowley thought it was an odd tradition, but Aziraphale looked so happy at the piano that he didn’t even mind.

Finally everyone started packing up their families and heading home, Beatrice sending everyone with a plate of leftovers. She hugged Crowley goodbye as tightly as she did her own children and insisted on giving him a plate, too.

“Do you feel like you got what you paid for?” Crowley joked, as he and Aziraphale pulled out of the driveway.

Aziraphale smiled warmly over at him. “Oh, I don’t think today could’ve gone much better,” he said. “They—they’re not perfect. But that’s all right, they’re trying, which is more than I could’ve ever said before.”

Crowley nodded. “Yeah. I—glad I could help.”

Aziraphale put a hand on his arm. “No, really,” he said. “I thought they’d be angry after today, and come around later, but...maybe you won them over?” he suggested. “Something happened. It was perfect.” He reached over and traced the back of his hand along Crowley’s upper arm. “Are you doing anything for New Year’s Eve?”

Crowley smiled over at him. “I had a party I was thinking of going to, but it’s not important,” he said. “You sure you want to bring me around them and _actually_ fill me full of bubbly?”

“Will you kiss me at midnight if I do?” Aziraphale asked. “I’ve never had that happen before.”

“Oh, I’ll kiss you every hour on the hour if you want,” Crowley said. “Don’t even need the bubbly for that.”

Aziraphale blushed a little. “Can’t believe you kissed me at all. When you walked into the café, you took my breath away, you know you’re way out of my league, don’t you?”

Crowley snorted. “Right, right, the line cook criminal, out of _your_ league…”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, really,” he said. “I really don’t hold that against you. You’ve moved on. Everyone else should be able to, too.”

Crowley blushed softly. “Yeah, well...all right.” He smiled. “I don’t have to wait until New Year’s to see you, do I? Are you free for dinner tomorrow?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I could cook for us, if you like. If it’s not too soon to have you over to my place. I mean I guess bar food’s probably not your thing, but I can make almost any kind of pasta you could ask for—”

“It’s all right,” Aziraphale said. “Yes. I’ll come over for dinner and you can make whatever you like.”

Crowley’s smile was bright. “All right.”

They got to the train station early, and Crowley reached over to take Aziraphale’s hand. “I’ll wait with you,” he said.

“Thanks,” Aziraphale said. “We...we have a little time…” He leaned in, but the gap between the seats was too wide for comfortable kissing.

Crowley cleared his throat. “Back of the van’s all...open. Got some sleeping bags, blankets, pillows…”

“You really camp out in it?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley nodded. “Yeah, when the weather’s nice. You want to see?” He unbuckled, and started slipping into the back. “We could just...relax…’til your train gets here.” He sat down in the middle of the back, in a nest of blankets, and kicked his shoes off. “If you wanted.”

Aziraphale smiled and clambered back with him. He grabbed one of the blankets and shook it out, and one of the pillows, and he stretched out. “Oh—oh, that’s quite nice, actually,” he murmured. “Comfortable.”

Crowley grinned and leaned down over him, and kissed him warmly—and when Aziraphale curled an arm around his neck, he laid down, straddling his thigh, and kept kissing him.

They kissed for long enough that Aziraphale missed his train.

Aziraphale sat up as he heard it rolling away. “Oh—oh, blast!”

Crowley laughed. “It’s all right, I’ll just drive you,” he said. He kissed the tip of Aziraphale’s nose. “Didn’t want to say goodnight just yet anyway.”

Aziraphale cupped his face in both hands, pulling him in for another kiss.

Eventually they got back into the seats, Aziraphale with one of the blankets still wrapped around his shoulders, and Crowley headed for the bookshop. He smiled a little. “You know, Tracy’s going to want to meet you. She gave me such a ribbing, ‘what if you actually hit it off with someone,’ all that. Wonder if she knew.”

“Knew?” Aziraphale asked.

“Oh, yes,” Crowley said. “She’s a bit psychic. The other business is seances, tarot, that sort of thing.”

Aziraphale tipped his head. “How funny...Agnes sent me your ad, she—she seems to know things, too. Writes an advice column. The follow ups, when people write back, seem uncanny sometimes, what she knows that they didn’t tell her.”

“You don’t think…?”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Aziraphale said. “They couldn’t possibly.”

“Right. Right,” Crowley agreed. “Ridiculous.”

Aziraphale took the blanket with him when they got out at the bookshop, too, so Crowley would have to ask for it back eventually. Crowley saw through the ruse, but let him take it. He walked him to the door, and Aziraphale stood with his hand on the knob once he’d gotten it unlocked.

Crowley grinned and went in for one more kiss. “Until tomorrow,” he murmured, nose bumping Aziraphale’s. “Merry Christmas, angel.”


End file.
